the cry of the water
by ncfan
Summary: -Denethor, Faramir- "Mama… She missed the water." "I… I did not know that."


**Summary**: "Mama… She missed the water." "I… I did not know that."**  
Pairings**: None**  
Author's Note**: The way I figure, Denethor had to pay attention to Faramir _some_ time. I just hope it doesn't seem OOC.**  
Disclaimer**: I don't own _Lord of the Rings_. I don't pretend to be capable of even aping Tolkien's style.

* * *

There have been few times in Faramir's life that he can remember, that he can truly claim to have had his father's full attention. Invariably, those times have been surprising, comforting and disquieting all at the same time. Now is no different.

How Denethor despises funerals.

The funeral rites have been said and done. Her body, laid to rest, until the long days are done forever. It all feels like a bitter refrain to Denethor, a hollow, empty lie, so much so that when he presses open the door of Finduilas's bedchamber, left slightly ajar (the work of the servants; Finduilas herself never would have been so careless), he can almost believe that he will still find her there, abed or reading.

And, as he should have expected, there is no one to be found here. This chamber is as empty as though no one ever lived here at all. The light is fading in earnest across the horizon to the east, the sky darker and lighter shades of blue from the ceiling of the sky down to the mountains of Mordor in the far east. Deep twilight shadows bleed the colors from Finduilas's bedchamber. The hangings of the bed and at the opening to the balcony seem coal gray as opposed to their normal blue; all seems gray, in fact, though Denethor knows the stone floors and the walls to be gray under any lighting. A few stray papers, loosened by the wind, bluster over the floors in the slight breeze.

It is with a soft sigh that Denethor leans down to retrieve them and place them on a dresser, thinking…

…Thinking, with a pang, that Finduilas would not have wanted papers scattered across the floor of her bedchamber like so many autumn leaves, untidy and making the place seem negligent.

They are letters, Denethor realizes numbly. Letters to Finduilas from her family in Dol Amroth, from her brother and sister, and her father as well, he realizes, recognizing Adrahil's signature at the bottom of a smooth vellum paper.

This is when he hears the small noise, not quite a whimper but rather a cross between a sigh and a sniffle, from somewhere within the cavernous bedchamber.

Denethor stands and straightens, pulling himself to his full height, bristling. Who has had the temerity to enter this place, now of all times? His keen, hawk-like eyes search the bedchamber, but the sound has echoed off of the slightly vaulted ceiling, and with the shadows seeping across the chamber like black water spilled from a glass, there are any number of places where an intruder could hide.

However, when the sound comes to his ears once more, Denethor's eyes are drawn inexorably to the wall hangings near the balcony, billowing like the sails of a ship at sea. A few swift, stormy steps are taken and a hand rips back the soft fabric to reveal the intruder.

"You should not be here," Denethor tells his younger son flatly.

Huddled against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, Faramir only stares up at his father with huge eyes, face moon pale in the dying light.

After a moment, he overcomes his shock and scrambles to his feet, wary, ill at ease and more miserable than Denethor thinks he has ever seen him, averting his eyes and choosing rather to stare at the floor than up at Denethor's face. "I… I am sorry," the child whispers, voice breaking and barely audible. "I just… I miss…"

Denethor is suddenly uncomfortably aware of the tenderly raw roughness to Faramir's voice, how his eyes are very red, rimmed scarlet around the edges. His cheeks are wet.

Having been awakened from the sleep of his own grief just enough to be aware of the grief of his son, Denethor softens somewhat unwillingly. He has lost a wife and today… Today, Faramir has lost a mother. His anguish can not be any less than his own (He will forget this later, but for now Denethor can not see how he could ever forget). And Denethor realizes that this is the first time he has seen Faramir since the funeral. He had his hands gripped tensely on the shoulders of his sons the whole time, and the moment the rites were complete Faramir slid free of his father's grasp to retreat back into the Citadel, just like Denethor himself. Neither could ever bear the condolences of the court.

Faramir lets out a small squeak of exclamation as Denethor leans down and takes him into his arms. Both wear black and apart from his pale face and hands Faramir seems to bleed into his father's shadows. "I know, Faramir." Denethor attempts to speak, console, do something, anything, but his voice catches in his throat, and he finds himself incapable of anything truly useful. "I… know. Come… We should not linger on in this place."

Before Denethor can take a single step, Faramir's small voice pierces the shadowy twilight gloom. "She… she missed the water."

Denethor stares at him. "What?" he asks, perhaps more sharply than he intended.

Faramir hesitates for a moment, but then seems to grow braver. "Mama…" Wide gray eyes choose to study with intense interest the letter from his grandmother Denethor left on the dresser "… she missed the ocean. She always told me so, said she could hear it calling to her."

Denethor can not pretend that he doesn't find it hurtful that Finduilas felt she could more comfortably confide in her son of five years than she could in her husband. He knew nothing of this. Or… Or maybe Finduilas had told him, maybe she had made it clear that she pined for the sea, and he had simply been too distracted to notice, too absorbed in his duties as the Steward of Gondor.

Wearily, feeling far older than his years (a sensation Denethor will grow greatly familiar with in future), Denethor sinks down on to the edge of Finduilas's bed, a faint flowery scent rising from the sheets, and he remembers. Finduilas kept vervain in her bedchamber, to freshen the air. "I… I am sorry, Faramir."

Faramir shows some curiosity, peeking shyly up at his father's stern face, shadowed as it is by grief and, now, he can see, guilt and regret. "Did you know?"

"No, I did not," Denethor admits with difficulty, and Faramir blinks, sea gray eyes growing sad.

This is the moment, just like many other moments, when Denethor is forced to see how similar to his mother Faramir is. Others say that the Steward's younger son resembles him and, in a way, he does. That, Denethor can never see, but knows subconsciously, and perhaps that is why he can not stand to look upon him at times. But really, Faramir's resemblance to Finduilas is what causes the greater grief, the aversion of the eyes, the occasional roughness. Denethor sees Finduilas's eyes in Faramir, her smile inside Faramir's already elusive one, her gentleness within his own.

Why must it be this way?

_(Conversely, Boromir sees the same thing—sees that Faramir is like their mother—and in stark contrast to Denethor this only makes Boromir love his brother more. In Boromir's eyes, any reminder he has of his mother is welcome.)_

They, Denethor is sure, will grow apart later. All fathers and all sons must grow apart, and he and Faramir already feel the distance yawning between them—it's his fault, he supposes. Faramir has tried to close the abyss, but there is only so much a child can do, and he can do little since his father will not cooperate.

But for now, Denethor is robbed of energy and unable—unwilling—to rise from his late wife's bed. And Faramir, this time, doesn't try to break free.

_Boromir will find them later. He has been nearly frantic, searching for his brother who has seemingly disappeared into thin air after their mother's funeral. Finally, after nearly an hour of indecision, he works up the courage to press open the door to his mother's bedchamber—already, this place feels forbidden to him._

_What greets his eyes leaves him in a state of open-mouthed shock for, frankly, Boromir has never seen the likes of this before._

_He can just make out the silhouettes of his father and younger brother in the full night darkness, but after a few seconds of staring, his eyes adjust to the darkness._

_Denethor is still awake, his eyes staring blankly into nothing._

_Faramir, on the other hand, is fast asleep. From the look on his face, Boromir can see that, presently, there's no place he'd rather be._


End file.
